Though Often I've Called You Sweet
by tito72
Summary: Edward is soft, deceptively so, with his thin mouth and his thin shoulders that hide a gentleman's soul. He's sweet, and like a fly to honey, Thomas orbits him, waiting, waiting, taking every chance he can to touch him and losing pieces of himself with every pass. For the first time in Thomas's silly life, he falls for someone's personality before their looks. Pre-slash fix-it.


Notes:

Sigh. I hesitated about writing fic for the Abbey, because while I love it dearly, my phrasing and word choice both very clearly belong to a silly girl who lives in the twenty-first century and worse than that (gasp!) is an American. It's hard enough trying to write Brit!fic or historical!fic individually, but putting them both together might be a little much. All I'm saying is, forgive me if my slang is too modern or too Yankee.

About a solid half of the dialogue is straight from the show. Title from Siegfried Sassoon's "The Imperfect Lover."

Lieutenant Courtenay is tall and thin, but his shoulders are slumped and his mouth set in an unhappy line. He doesn't speak, not when they first bring him in, and the private what sets him on his bed (too rough, Thomas thinks, much too rough) says he hasn't spoken since he was wounded. Some men don't, they all know. Some men take weeks to speak and some only cry in their sleep, and if they never talk again, they get sent home by way of Craiglockhart. That's not Thomas's concern, of course, and he hasn't been concerned about the other officers like this. This man, though (and Thomas supposes it really is much too familiar to even think of him as Edward), he has Thomas's concern without Thomas ever giving his consent on the subject. Still, it's no matter. Just one more pretty face that will come and go through his life and he'll be left alone in the end despite them all.

Except, Edward is more than a pretty face, and Thomas knows that's true, because for the first part of their acquaintance, the man has bandages over the top of said face. The lower half of his face, though lovely to look at and likely very nice to the touch, wouldn't ordinarily be enough to turn Thomas's head. Because, actually, for the first time in Thomas's silly life, he falls for someone's personality before their looks.

Edward… Edward is soft, deceptively so, with his thin mouth and his thin shoulders that hide a gentleman's soul. He's sweet, and like a fly to honey, Thomas orbits him, waiting, waiting, taking every chance he can to touch him and losing pieces of himself with every pass.

Edward does talk, eventually. He's not chatty, never that, but his voice is smooth and Thomas takes every word to heart. It's little things at first, thanking Thomas for bringing him his pills every day, requests for help sitting up or standing. It must be disorienting, Thomas thinks, to suddenly not be able to see anything at all, and he doesn't envy Edward that. But to take his mind off it, Thomas starts making time to sit down with the man and have a bit of a chat every now and again.

"What did you do before this mess?" Edward asks once, early on in what Thomas would tentatively call their friendship. He's got one arm behind his head and the other hand curled in his lap, and he's beautiful, even for the heavy bandages across his eyes.

"I worked up the big house down the road, sir," Thomas tells him, and this man's a gent, right enough, too good for the likes of Thomas, but Thomas's accent has already marked him out for a working-class lad, and anyway, he isn't embarrassed about his past. He had a respectable position, after all, and if the war hadn't come so soon, he'd have been more respectable yet. "I was First Footman. Did a bit of valeting, here and there, when his lordship's guests came without their own men. I was on my way up, too. This close to being made his lordship's valet, I was."

Edward clearly doesn't know what to say to this, so he just nods in that thoughtful way he does sometimes.

"What about you, sir?" Thomas asks, and he's cool and collected, not too eager. "What did you do before the war started?"

There's a beat where Thomas thinks Edward won't answer, but then he sighs and says in his serious manner, "I was up at Oxford," and of course he was, Thomas had known he was a gentleman from the start. Then he continues, "But I only ever planned to farm," and that gives Thomas pause. It's a gentleman's ambition, sure, to run an estate and be lord of the manor, but the way Edward says the thing, the way he doesn't just say, 'inherit,' means he's clearly invested, personal-like. "Farm and hunt and shoot and fish. And everything I'll never do again." He doesn't sound bitter, like Thomas imagines he himself might, but neither does he sound resigned. He sounds… he sounds like he might cry, to be honest.

Thomas swallows and looks away, because the emotions of this man, his capacity to feel, it scares Thomas. "You don't know that, sir," he says, because he can't help himself. "We've had cases of gas blindness wearing off."

It's true, but it's not, because there are cases but not many and not often, and Edward's smart enough to know this. "Rare cases," he snaps, "and much sooner than this." He sucks a breath in through his teeth and continues, "It doesn't help me to be lied to, you know." Thomas hangs his head, chagrined, though Edward can't see him do it.

And because Edward is brave, more so than Thomas will ever be, he finishes with, "I'm finished. And I'd rather face it than dodge it."  
It's too much, it's all too much, and for the first time Thomas realizes that underneath this sweet, soft man, there's an edge much harder than a coward like Thomas could ever fathom. "I'd better go," he says, and stands. He walks away and only looks back once.

They don't speak of that day again, and for a while after, by mutual agreement, their little talks stay light, or as light as it's possible to be with a war going on. They talk about the past mostly, before the war. Edward tells stories sometimes about Oxford and the friends he left behind there, and neither of them acknowledge that likely most of that set are dead or wounded now. Thomas, for his part, tells Edward about life in service, about teasing William and dodging Carson's wrath- nothing that would incriminate him, mind, but the less terrible schemes, the funny ones. Edward never laughs, he's too well-bred for that and too melancholy besides, but he smiles a few times, real smiles that make Thomas have to look away to catch his breath.

When they finally take the bandages off for good, Thomas can't help but stare. Not for the scars around Edward's eyes; Thomas has his own scars and knows well enough to see past them. The beauty of the man, though, it's breath-taking. He's biased, he knows, because of his silly, fluttering feelings for the man, but even Nurse Crawley runs her eyes appreciatively down Edward's face, and she's much too high class to have any of the soppy feelings Thomas does. He's a handsome man, is Lieutenant Courtenay, and the clouded eyes and blistered skin don't detract from that, not at all. The only consolation, and it's not much of one, considering the price the Lieutenant has to pay, is that Edward can't see him staring.

"You've a letter, sir," Thomas tells him one day. It's the first Edward has gotten in the three weeks he's been here and Thomas knows that for a fact, because it's one of his duties specifically to deliver the mail to each of the beds individually and to help them open the envelopes if they can't manage it on their own, what with their missing fingers or shaking hands. He doesn't usually read them the letters, that's going a bit above and beyond the call of duty, as it were, but for Edward he makes an exception.

It's not a happy letter, unfortunately. It's from Edward's mother, and while she asks after his well-being and expresses her regret at being unable to visit, the main purpose for the letter is to say that Jack has stepped up and is managing the estate. That's not so bad, Thomas figures, one less thing for Edward to worry about while he recovers, but the line of Edward's mouth says otherwise.

"Who's Jack?" Thomas asks. He's not sure it's his place to ask, but he's never feared to be impertinent before and he's not about to start now.

"My younger brother," Edward says after a moment's pause. "He means to replace me." He laughs, sort-of, and it's not a happy sound. "It's what he's always wanted."

It occurs to Thomas suddenly that he's misjudged Edward once again. Or, not misjudged, precisely, but presumed to know him completely without realizing all of his depths. He's known the man almost a month, talks with him every day at the very least, and he knows that underneath the sweet exterior of a gentleman is a hard edge of a soldier's courage and the strength to carry on in a changed world with a changed body. But now, for the first time, it occurs to Thomas that underneath all that, there's something more, something soft and broken. He doesn't show it often, but he's needy, is Edward Courtenay, and his needs are so broad and ill-defined that Thomas may never know how to fill them.

"Yeah," Thomas manages to force out. "Well."

"I'm sorry," Edward says at once, but it's a pretense. His heart isn't in it and his voice gives him away. Not even the manners of good-breeding can fix everything, Thomas supposes. "I mustn't bore you."

Thomas hesitates, because he doesn't know what to say, how to help this man. Finally, he comes up with the best bit of advice he can, the thing he's followed all his life and holds at his core like a shining light in the darkness. "Don't let 'em walk all over you. Y'gotta fight your corner."

Edward turns his face toward Thomas once again, and it must be habit or a need for connection, because the man can't see him at all. "What with?" he says, halfway to disbelief.

"Your brain," Thomas tells him automatically. "You're not a victim. Don't let them make you into one."

"You know, when you talk like that," Edward says, voice choked, "I almost believe you." His eyes are wet and Thomas almost can't stand this, seeing this man's pain, feeling it like it's his own.

"Well you should believe me," Thomas says. He looks at the letter in his hands and back up again. He swallows. "All my life, they've pushed me around, just 'cause I'm different."

"How?" Edward asks. "Why are you different?"

"Never mind," Thomas says quickly, because he's not about to tell Edward the truth, risk losing his respect, his friendship. "Look," he says bluntly, "I don't know if you're gonna see again or not. But I do know you have to fight back."

It might be the break in his voice or something else he doesn't know, but quite suddenly, Edward reaches out and finds his knee with his hand. After a moment's hesitation, Thomas covers that hand with his own, his good one, and he holds on tight. They stay that way together for long, long moments in silence and the spell is only broken when Nurse Crawley comes to fetch Edward for his rehabilitation.

Edward is hesitant about the stick, at first. Somehow, without being able to see the thing, he manages to look down his rather attractive nose at it. "I don't see that it will help," he says quietly, and he's right, at first, because he stubbornly refuses to take a single step without someone's hand to guide him.

"Now, Lieutenant," Mrs. Crawley says disapprovingly when she comes round with her superior attitude to inspect their work. "Don't you wish to become more independent?"

Edward doesn't say anything to that, but Thomas sees the way his shoulders tighten at the reminder that he cannot manage even to walk on his own and will likely never be wholly independent. Thomas glares at Mrs. Crawley on the man's behalf, but she doesn't even notice, just waltzes away to find somewhere else to flaunt her authority.

It does get better, though, after that, and Edward starts to really try with the stick. It's not long at all before he's got the confidence to walk on his own. Nurse Crawley and Thomas are with him every step of the way, of course, tossing out encouragements and tips and just generally being supportive in Edward's proximity. It all works out, and though he's shaky and halting and keeps running into the obstacles they set for him, Edward learns to walk on his own, slowly, day by day. And of course, the more he learns, the more confident he becomes in himself.

That doesn't stop him from having bad days, though. Some days, he refuses to get up for the rehabilitation, at all, and he barely eats. He never gets another letter from his family, but on those bad days, he holds the one he's got in his hands while he stares at the ceiling and rubs his fingers along the page until the ink has blurred and faded. On those days, he and Thomas don't talk, but they sit together in Thomas's downtime, nonetheless, and though he never says, Thomas thinks Edward is glad for the company.

Other days are less terrible but still bad. Those days aren't silent, but they are quiet, and though Edward gets up and does the things that are expected of him, anyone can see that his heart isn't in it. On those days, he likes Thomas to read to him during their time together and Thomas obliges, reading articles in the paper or chapters of any book he can get his hands on. It's not perfect, but it gets them through.

And there are the good days, of course, the days where Edward actually smiles, though only small smiles and only for short periods of time. Those are the days Thomas waits for, the ones he cherishes and tucks away into his memory to take out late at night when he's alone.

"Do you ever want something you know you can never have?" Edward asks on one of his bad days, just before lights out. Thomas had only been passing by a moment before, but Edward had recognized his footsteps and put a hand out to halt him, bade him sit for a moment, and Thomas indulged him, because he can't give Edward his sight back, but anything he can give, he does willingly.

"O' course," Thomas says, because who doesn't? What Thomas himself wants is a better life than the one he's living and someone to smile at him and tell him he'll never be alone again in his life. It's all a bit soppy, of course, but a man can't help the things he desires, not really. "What is it you want, sir?" He's on the edge of impertinence again, but stuff propriety, anyway.

"Silly things, mostly," Edward admits and a bit of a blush stains his lovely cheekbones. "To be able to walk down a street on my own, without that ridiculous cane. To see the flowers bloom. To know what people look like when I'm speaking to them." He pauses, sighs, then continues, "You, especially. And Nurse Crawley. Is she as pretty as she sounds?"

Thomas's heart sinks a bit, because of course a bloke like Edward weren't going to be interested in someone like Thomas, he knew that, he did, but to hear it out there in the open that Edward fancies Nurse Crawley, well, it's disheartening, is what. "She is rather," he says, anyway, because if it'll make the man happy to hear it, Thomas is pleased to say it. "She's dark hair and lovely blue eyes. A sweet face."

"Oh?" Edward asks, and his mouth turns up a bit at the side in something almost a smile. "She sounds charming. And what of you?"

"Sir?" Thomas asks.

"What do you look like, Corporal?" Edward asks and his smile hasn't gone yet, so Thomas smiles back, hopes Edward can hear it in his voice.

"I've dark hair," he says cautiously. "Blue eyes-"

"And a sweet face?" Edward interrupts, and he's joking, of course he is, but Thomas feels himself flush.

"So I've been told," he drily.

"Well," Edward says, and he's smiling a bit more now, a good end to a bad day. "I'm glad to hear it."

"I've been reading," Nurse Crawley says conversationally as they're settling Edward back into his bed after rehabilitation on one of his good days. Thomas stares at her, wondering vaguely when she's found the time to read, what with both of them run off their feet every day all day. "And I understand that there's a specialized written language for the blind. It's a series of dots that one feels with one's fingers to read and there's a stylus of some sort to write with. It, well, it wouldn't be easy, but I don't see that it would be impossible to learn, either." When Edward doesn't say anything immediately, she continues, "Well, just think about it."

"Thank you, Nurse Crawley," Edward says, but it's politeness more than anything, because while he doesn't seem to be dismissing the idea out of hand, his mouth is that thin, stubborn line that means he's going to need to be persuaded at length. Thomas looks forward to the challenge.

It's on another of those good days that Edward finally asks about Thomas's hand. "You're wearing a glove, aren't you?" he asks, after their hands have accidently brushed.

"I am," Thomas admits. "I've got me own war-wound, you see. Took a bullet straight through the palm."

"Good God," Edward says, appropriately horrified. "But you still have the use of the hand?"

"Mostly," Thomas says, shrugging, though of course Edward can't see the gesture. He can't really bend his little finger so much or the one next to it, but it really was a miracle of an injury. "It was a lucky shot that got me. Can't lift stretchers no more, but it's what landed me here, so…" He trails off.

"Well," Edward says after a moment. "I'm glad you're here."

Thomas is, too, more now than ever before.

It's a medium-grade day that finds Nurse Crawley and Thomas with Edward outside in the garden, practicing with the walking stick. They're giving him bits of advice on his pace and such, but it's mostly hands-off by this point, and Thomas thinks it won't be long now before he's got the hang of it proper and can manage on his own.

Major Clarkson, it seems, feels the same way, because they're not out long before he comes walking importantly up to them. "Lieutenant Courtenay," he says, "Well done. You're making good progress."

"Thanks to my saviors, sir," Edward replies and there's genuine affection in his voice, enough to give Thomas a bit of a pause before he salutes the major.

Clarkson casually disregards his statement altogether. "So you'll be pleased to hear," he continues, "that we're all agreed that it's time for you to continue your treatment elsewhere."

"What?" Edward says, face gone from vaguely pleased to incredulous, possibly even frightened.

"At Farley Hall," Clarkson elaborates. "You're not ill anymore. All you need is time to adjust to your condition. The staff at Farley can help with that."

And that's true, it's all true, but surely they can't just send Edward away, not when he's doing so well here, with Thomas.

"But sir," Edward says, "these two are helping me."

Clarkson sighs. "Nurse Crawley and Corporal Barrow are not trained in specialist care," he points out, plainly annoyed at having to say anything on the matter at all.

"Please," Edward says desperately. "Don't send me away. Not yet."

The desperation and misery in his tone is too much for Thomas, and he can't help but step in, no matter how unwise it is. "Sir, surely we-" he starts, but cuts himself off at the look Clarkson sends his way, the one that says he's going to be in mighty trouble for his cheek.

With Thomas silenced, Clarkson steps in close to Edward, much too close, and says, "Lieutenant, you must know that every one of our beds is needed for the injured and dying from Arras."

Edward doesn't say anything, just breathes, which Clarkson must take as agreement, because he steps back and pats the lieutenant on the arm, as though that's any consolation at all. Then he levels a look at Thomas and says, "Corporal, I'll see you in my office."

Thomas shares a look with Nurse Crawley and they come to a silent agreement. Thomas has to go at once, of course, but she won't be far behind him. They're not going to take this lying down.

In the office, Thomas stands at attention but argues his bit. "Sir," he says patiently, "I only meant to say Lieutenant Courtenay is depressed." And he bloody well is, that's plain to anyone with eyes.

"I will not leave wound soldiers freezing or sweating under canvas because one junior officer is depressed," Clarkson thunders. At the knock on the door, he yells, "Yes?" and there's Nurse Crawley, right on schedule.

"I thought you might want to know what I think," she says, coming to stand by Thomas, the two of them a symbolic barrier between the brass and Edward Courtenay.

Clarkson scoffs loudly. "Why should I?" he asks angrily. "Nurse Crawley, I may not be your social superior in a Mayfair ballroom, but in this hospital, I have the deciding voice." He says it as though that's the problem, as though it's all one big class struggle and one man's future hanging in the balance by damned.

"Please help him prepare his belongings," Clarkson continues more calmly. He sits, matter dismissed. "He leaves first thing in the morning."

Thomas supposes he should have expected it. Edward is a reservoir of emotions and it's near impossible to tell which will bubble to the surface at any given situation. He had been upset by the Major's words, of course, and any fool could see that he didn't want to leave. Still, he'd been silent, determined, when Thomas helped him pack his things, and Thomas had taken that to mean he was in one of his strong moods. He didn't want to go, but he had no choice, so he was going to face it head-on, just like he's doing with his blindness.

Except, it wasn't like that at all, and Thomas should have known.

"I'll sit your shift tonight," Thomas tells Nurse Crawley quietly after the Major's gone to bed. "You could use a few more hours sleep, if you don't mind me saying."

Sybil, dear sweet Sybil looks at him right in the eyes and he knows she's seeing right through him, maybe into the deepest reserves of his soul. He doesn't look away and he doesn't blink. "Alright," she says at last. "Thank you, Corporal. Wake me if you need me."  
It's an offer of friendship, of understanding between the two of them, and at that moment, he cannot imagine loving a woman more than he loves her, because she knows the deepest parts of him and she cares for him, anyway.

Thomas goes about his duties, mostly prowling up and down the aisles of men, waiting for one of them to cry out in their sleep or wake in terror. As he's doing this, though, he keeps his eyes especially on one bed, on one man, because he can't keep his eyes to himself and the moonlight streaming through the window illuminates half of Edward's beautiful face, lax and serene with sleep.

One of the men does cry out, eventually, and it's in pain, not terror. Thomas slips him the bit of morphine he's been allotted and has to wait it out until the man passes out again before he can walk away. Except, of course, that man's shouts wake up at least three others and since they're not in terrible pain, he's got to settle them all down without the aid of morphine. It's a taxing process and takes all the patience Thomas has, but at last the room falls silent again.

Or, mostly silent. Because there's another sound, now, beyond the breathing and occasional snoring of two dozen officers. The sound is a gasping, as though someone's stopped being able to breathe, and Thomas's eyes automatically seek out the one person he fears most for. And there, in the moonlight, Thomas can see the glint of metal and the dark of dripping blood.

"No!" Thomas says, vaulting a bed and then another, because he knows what this is and he can't believe he's been so stupid. How could he not have expected this? He reaches the other side of the room in record time and is on his knees in an instant, grappling with Edward for the razor. "No," he hisses, angry and scared and a thousand other things he doesn't have the time to feel. "What're you playing at?"

Edward's breath is coming in gasps and his blood is soaking the bed. Thomas doesn't hesitate, drops the razor out of reach and grabs for the bed sheets. He tears one with his teeth and grabs Edward's arm tight in his hand, so tight Edward gasps with the pain of it. Thomas ignores him, ignores the stupid bastard's pain and wraps the makeshift bandage around the wound. It'll need sutures, he thinks absently, applying as much pressure as he dares.

"Thomas," Edward croaks and Thomas jerks, keeps pressure on the wound but looks Edward in the face for the first time. He's pale, but not dangerously so, and if Thomas can get the bleeding to stop, everything should be okay. The less analytical part of his brain seethes with anger at the same time he recognizes this is the first time Edward's used his Christian name.

"Shut up," Thomas hisses, the feeling of betrayal pressing down on him. "You stupid, selfish bastard. How could you?"

To Thomas's horror, Edward starts to cry. It's a messy affair, ugly and wet and prolonged and Thomas looks away, can't stand to see it, can't stand the way it makes him feel. It shouldn't be possible, he thinks, for one man to feel another's pain as though it were his own. It's just not right.

"I'm sorry," Edward says through his tears and he gropes for a moment with his uninjured arm until his hand comes to rest flat against Thomas's cheek. The touch is wet, from sweat or blood Thomas doesn't know and he doesn't care, because his own eyes are starting to well up and he knows that if he starts to cry now, Edward will feel it and it'll all be over then.

"You should be sorry," Thomas tells him, and all around them the hall is quiet, though it's a damn miracle anyone at all slept through their ruckus. "What were you thinking?"

"I- I can't," Edward chokes. "I can't leave. I can't do it on my own."

"Clearly," Thomas says, aiming for dry and ending up somewhere between wet and sticky. Edward's hand is still on his face and he can't help but lean into it, even as he makes sure not to let up on the pressure over his wrist. He clears his throat. "Listen. You're going to need sutures. I need you to keep pressure on this while I get my kit." He guides Edward's hand away from his face and shows him how much pressure to apply to the wound. "It's supposed to hurt," he tells him when Edward grimaces at the change.

When Thomas pulls away and stands, Edward looks up at him, clouded eyes wide with fear. "Don't leave me," he begs.

"I'll be right back," Thomas promises and he is, to the locked supply cabinet and back again in under a minute. He should wake Major Clarkson, he knows, but Thomas can handle a simple suture and he thinks Edward might need to be alone right now. Well, alone with Thomas. The Major's going to give Edward the dressing down of his life, but that won't help the situation right now and therefore can wait until morning. Thomas will probably get a thrashing, too, but he, at least, will have the satisfaction of Edward being alive, and of knowing he was right about moving the lieutenant too soon, to boot.

Edward winces his way through the suturing, and Thomas imagines he'll be in pain for a while. He won't get any morphine from Thomas, though, because the stupid lout brought this on himself and if he could only feel Thomas's relief once the wrist is closed up again and bandaged properly, Thomas knows Edward would never try this again.

They sit quietly for a few minutes afterward, Thomas breathing through his relief at the near-miss and Edward contemplating who-knows-what, though at least his eyes are dry now. Edward eventually breaks the silence.

"You're going to tell the Major, aren't you?" he asks dully.

"I'll have to," Thomas says, and then adds, "sir," because this might be a good time to step back and try to restore normality. "He might insist they send you to Craiglockhart."

"I can't leave," Edward says and Thomas, hearing the desperation creeping back in, takes his good hand and gives it a squeeze, which, well, so much for normality.

"No," Thomas agrees slowly, an idea forming in his mind. "And perhaps you won't have to. But for now, sir, let's get this mess cleaned up, shall we?"

He has Edward sit on one of the visitor's chairs while he quickly and quietly changes the sheets out for new ones. After that, there's the awkward task of getting Edward into clean pyjamas, which calls upon all of Thomas's practice as a valet, because Edward, unlike his lordship, is all elbows and rather unwieldy on top of that. They manage, though, and Thomas eventually gets Edward back into bed and lying down.

"Don't leave me," Edward whispers, more vulnerable than Thomas has ever seen him, even with his blood sloshing out of him.

"I won't," Thomas promises and sits with the man until he's asleep. Then he goes to wake Sybil.

As predicted, Edward's lecture from Major Clarkson is thunderous in its wrath and loud enough for the whole hospital to hear, even with the Major's office door closed. Thomas doesn't have time to loiter outside the door eavesdropping, but he gets the gist well enough from the other side of the building. It's not a bad thing, though, despite the explosive quality of the thing, because Thomas knows Edward, and he knows that a dressing down from the Major won't break him. Actually, Thomas's prediction is that it'll have the opposite effect, and he's right, because when Edward finally emerges from the office, he's standing straight and his jaw is set, and he's using his stick to guide himself. He's not doing a bad job of it, either, but he accepts Thomas's guiding hand on his arm with an obvious sigh of relief and Thomas helps him back to his bed.

"And how did that go, sir?" Thomas asks cheekily as he goes about changing the bandages on Edward's wrists. The empty trucks are due soon to take the men to Farley Hall and the trucks full of wounded men are set to arrive two hours after that and the whole place is in an uproar.

"Quite splendidly," Edward says, and though his shoulders are set, his voice is hollow. "It seems I really have no choice. As my… third option has been taken away from me, I must either convalesce at Farley Hall or be drummed out of the army at once. And if I chose the latter, what would become of me, then?"

What, indeed, Thomas muses. Thomas himself is staying at the hospital and even if he were still a footman, he'd never be allowed a guest of his own. He could write to O'Brien, have her maybe convince her ladyship to invite Edward to stay, but under what pretense? And anyway, with Nurse Crawley and Thomas busy all day and night at the hospital, Edward would be just as alone at Downton as he would if he simply goes home and allows his brother to lord over him as master of their estate. It's simply not to be born.

"You'll have to go," Thomas tells him softly, not the first piece of advice he's given Edward about his future, but certainly the most direct. "But maybe it won't be for long."

Edward's eyebrows draw together in confusion. "What does that mean?" he asks, clearly trying not to be hopeful.

"We've got plans, Nurse Crawley and I," Thomas explains. "What's need is clear, a convalescent home near to here, and Nurse Crawley has the connections that make just that sort of thing happen. And once everything's all sorted out, there's no reason you can't be transferred back. It'll take a bit to get started up and get the family to agree, but it shouldn't be more'n a month, tops."

"A month's a long time to be alone," Edward says after a long, long pause.

"I could write you," Thomas offers at once. "There's got to be someone in all of Farley Hall, surely that'd be willing to read a man a letter from his mate." He realizes he's misspoke as soon as he says it, because they're not mates, not really, just a Corporal and a Lieutenant stationed together.

Edward doesn't seem to notice, though, just smiles a very tiny bit and nods. "That's kind of you," he says, and whether he means to say more, Thomas never knows, because he's called away just then to help with the trucks. The don't get another moment alone together, the two of them, until Thomas is helping Edward up into the truck that will take him away.

"I'll see you soon, sir," Thomas tells him and he swears to himself that it's the truth. One way or another, he's going to make this happen, going to see Edward again. And the next time they come together, Thomas vows to himself, it'll be forever.


End file.
